


Something Nice

by imnothere24



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff with a lil angst, Pre-ESB, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but mostly fluff tho, in which leia is a confused mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 02:19:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9361436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imnothere24/pseuds/imnothere24
Summary: Han does nice things for Leia all the time. But how often does she return the favor?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SailorSwifty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorSwifty/gifts), [frozen-force-leia](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=frozen-force-leia).



> _A/N: Written for the Han/Leia Secret Santa ‘16 Exchange on Tumblr._   
>  _Thanks to organanation and my own nerf-herder for the betas._
> 
> _Prompt: Getting Caught_  
>  _Year: Approximately 2 ABY_  
>  _Place: Some Rebel Base_

“It looks like you just performed a wingover on your plate,” Luke laughed. “What did you put on that?”

“Nothing.” Leia glanced around.  “You want some?”

Luke laughed. “What is it?” 

“Chandrilan armoracia-root mustard. You should try it, it goes well with this.” 

Luke  shook his head, more at her than her offer. “You hate boiled ruica.”

“I don’t.” 

“You crop-dusted it!” 

Leia put on what Luke knew was her best diplomatic voice. “It’s simply that the spiciness of the mustard nicely offsets the… _boiledness_ of the ruica.”

“Then why are you hiding it?”

“I don’t want to look like I can’t eat the food,” she admitted. “Even if the mustard is _traditionally_ served with the ruica. Here, try it.”

Shoving her fist into her pocket for a moment, Leia palmed a small bottle into Luke’s hand under the table. 

Luke nodded, mirth momentarily gone. He felt so at ease with Leia that he could forget their difference in backgrounds until moments like this. He’d never even had Bimm mustard back home, and the idea of carrying sauces into a place that served three free meals a day had always struck him as a little extravagant. But he knew Leia hardly ate even when food was plentiful; the last thing she needed were her brothers- and sisters-in-arms criticizing her for something everyone else did anyway. Luke was grateful for anything that motivated her to, as Han once put it, _put food into her face_.

“It’s not like you're the only one. You’ve seen how much chili-paste the Corellians bring in here, right?” he asked, gingerly tapping some of the mustard onto the edge of his plate more for Leia’s sake than out of his own desire. Leia rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “I take it that’s the source of this?”

“The Corellian pilots?”

“Just the one.”

“Who else?”

“That was nice of him.”

“I suppose,” Leia said, but her small, almost private smile betrayed her appreciation.

“Come on, admit it,” Luke pushed. Han and Leia were his two favorite people, and he got sick of the way they pretended not to like each other sometimes. The push-pull was exhausting, and he- he hated to admit this even to himself- sometimes worried that Leia took Han for granted. Or sent Han the message she did. “That was _nice_ of him.”

“There are plenty of words I’d use to describe Han Solo, but I’m not sure nice is one of them.” 

Now it was Luke’s turn to roll his eyes, even if her tone was teasing “Seriously, Leia, Han does nice things for you like all the time. You should be nicer to him.”

“I’m nice, he’s the one who always has to make things an argument!” 

Luke paused. Leia was a good person; he knew this as he knew the percentage humidity on a given day. He had seen her do many kind things in her role as princess and Rebel leader, and she had always been especially thoughtful with Luke himself, and yet, he knew well that Han had gone out of his way for her about a million times, and he had never witnessed her return the favor.  “You do nice things for Han too, right?”

“Of course.”

Luke waited. 

“I make sure he’s paid.”

“That’s not nice, that’s your _job_.”

“It’s not _my_ job. That’s payroll’s job. _My_ job is poorly-defined and always changing. And yet, for Han’s sake, still I make sure.” Leia’s voice lilted upwards in a fake, haughty-sort of martyred tone that Luke thought sounded more like Han than the Princess.

“That’s because you don’t want him to leave.” 

Leia flicked Luke a warning glance. 

Luke tried again. “I mean anything nice that’s not _Alliance_ -related. That’s not something that he’s owed because he’s contracted.”

“How is one supposed to be nice to Han Solo if not by paying him?” Leia protested. Luke shrugged mildly. “I make sure he can repair his ship,” she grumbled into her food.

“I’m not saying you don’t do right by him, Leia. I’m wondering if you’ve ever gone out of the way for him, like you do for me? Like he seems to do for you?”

“I warned him about the dragonsnake on Aracara.”

Luke raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah, I know,” Leia said with chagrin. Providing a life-saving information was not a great example of _nice_.

—

Leia reflected as she walked back to her office. Had she really never done anything nice for Han? How could that be true, in the two years they had worked together? More than worked together; she considered him a friend. Yet her attempts to identify such acts during lunch had failed, and as she racked her brain, she continued to come up empty. Everything she could think of had what Han would call an angle.

Did Han really do that many nice things for her anyway?  

But she knew Luke was right. The armoracia-root mustard had appeared in front of her door last week, following a conversation with Han in which she admitted that she would probably eat _anything_ with armoracia-root mustard; and he could be so particular about her eating habits. Other kindnesses had followed similar patterns. Something she needed suddenly appeared. An appliance was magically working again after Han became aware that it was not only busted, but so far down the maintenance list the Alliance would defeat the Empire before they got to it. Unless there was another kind supply-runner who struck when Han was on-planet and knew the details of their private conversations, it was definitely him. And while she disliked dwelling on _why_ Han might be so overly attentive- he helped Luke too, she told herself- if it hadn’t actually been him… well, that would be even more disturbing than Solo’s vaguely romantic intentions.

Han was nice to her. Han was nice all-around. Committed to pretending not to be, and a little hot-headed, but nevertheless. Between the mercenary smuggler and the princess-politician leading the rebellion against tyranny, _Han_ got to be the nice one? Leia frowned, both at the realization and at her competitive line of thinking. She could hear Han’s voice in her head: _That, sweetheart, is an angle._ The frown turned into a glower, and a lieutenant in the hallway buried his face in his datapad and picked up his pace.

Leia sighed. Why was it so much harder with Han than with Luke? _Well, for one he won’t even commit to_ \- As she entered the code to her office door, Leia willed herself not to follow that mental track. She had been over this numerous times, by herself _and_ with Captain Solo, and knew she would be down that womp rat-hole for hours if she let herself. For now, she had a problem to solve.

Returning to her desk, Leia tossed a flimsi into the shred bin. After lunch, she liked to reset with some organizational tasks that were mindless but helped her maintain productivity through the rest of her work day, which frequently stretched late into the evening, and today she set about reordering datapads with particular rigor. 

What could she do that was nice for Han? 

She knew he liked, and could always use, money. But there was no way to give him this outside of a fair business contract. She imagined a Life Day card- when was Han’s anyway? How could she not know?- with cash stuffed into it and knew that would never be an option. He might take that from Luke, and would likely put it toward liquoring up half the Rogue squadron, but from her he would take it as an affront. _“I don’t need your charity, your worshipfulness.”_ She shuddered at the imagined contempt. 

Whiskey came to mind. But she didn’t really approve of how much he drank- _what are you, Organa, his mother?_ No, she did _not_ want to be his mother- and it wouldn’t be a good look for her to be getting her pilots drunk.

Leia really _had_ ensured Han had gotten some much-needed parts. Though this too was payment for services rendered and, as Han was so happy to remind her, kept him conveniently running for their operation. No, she had to figure out what she could do for Han that he _liked_ but didn’t _need_ , something that wouldn’t come off as “in return for” the Rebellion. 

Which meant weaponry was also out. It wasn’t as if Leia had time to browse vintage or antique weapons next time she was off planet. And anyway, that might be _too_ thoughtful. She didn’t want to him to get the wrong idea. _And what idea would that be, Organa?_ She tried to banish _that_ idea from her mind, which helpfully chimed in with another suggestion it mutinously thought Han might enjoy-

_No,_ she was most certainly _not_ going to give Han Solo sex. An image of Han’s dopey grin sprang to mind, and she pushed it away along with the tingling at the back of her spine it evoked. He would not smile at her like that, and she would not hop into bed with someone who was going to up and leave, no matter how much she owed him as a friend or how much he would appreciate it. 

Chewie was looking for materials for a new hammock; maybe Leia could help with that. Chewbacca was Han’s best friend, after all, and Leia knew it meant a lot to Han when people took the time to get to know him. Humans so frequently treated Wookies as less-than. Leia blew out her breath in a rush. How sad that the easiest way she could think of doing something nice for Han was to do something for _Chewie_. No, she should keep Chewie in mind, and her eyes open for hammock-materials, but that would not do.

Han, for a man who wasn’t very rich, had simple tastes and didn’t need or really ask for very much. _(In spite of the fact that it somehow felt like he was always making demands of her.)_ How was it Han was always able to find just the thing that would make her life better? Han Solo was _winning_ at being a friend, and this would _not do_.

—

Leiamade it halfway to her bunk before she thought to be embarrassed by having stolen Han Solo’s _clothing_.

She had been in the main hangar, listening to Han pitch a fit because _this hellhole of a planet_ was somehow _worse than last one_ (Han had a skill for selective memory) and his _vest got_ s _hredded to hell by one of those_ _gods-damned carnivorous plants_ (the swamp on the last planet had eaten a pair of  his boots, through fault of his own) that they had been _assured wouldn’t be an issue_ (if everyone used proper precautions, which he obviously hadn’t) and he was _lucky it wasn’t his skin_ (that was probably true). He had thrown the torn vest over the edge of the Millennium Falcon’s ramp (“that was a genuine Corellian, from 49 _60_ ”)  and they had gotten into it (“If you don't like the pay, I’m not stopping you from leaving.” “Oh no, Highness? Then maybe I will.” “At least then we won’t have to _hear_ about it all the time!”). It had only ended when Han was called away by some pilot younger than Luke who insisted the diagnostic software on his A-wing wasn’t running properly and all the more experienced pilots were unavailable and could Captain Solo please take a look (“What would your little rebellion do without me, sweetheart?”). 

Left to stew in a puddle of righteous irritation, Leia had nevertheless remembered the mission she’d chosen to take on earlier in the week and pilfered the vest. She avoided eye contact on the way back to her bunk, imagining the eyes in the hallway boring through her own military-style jacket to where Han’s vest was bundled in the inner pocket. _What were you thinking, Organa?_ she asked herself. 

Still, she figured this was the right thing. She had resolved to do something nice for Han, and while she knew he would say it wasn’t about the damn vest (what _was_ it about? she was never quite sure with them) she got the feeling Han really was upset about the damage. She had never seen him without it. Leia knew Han could be almost superstitious in his attachments to his possessions. There was nothing  religious or mystical about it, just a connection to ritual and things being the way he liked, along with a tendency towards overdramatics. Leia, having few things herself these days, thought she understood. 

When she finally smuggled the vest into her bunk, Leia spread it out before her and examined her project. Han was right: the height of Corellian spacer-wear 20 years ago, now decidedly _out_ of fashion, this one was definitely an original. It was heavier than it looked, but then it would have to be to accommodate all that it was supposed to hold at ready reach. Leia wondered where Han had got it from- or who he had taken it off of. Somebody had obviously already made several repairs over the years. There was a lined inner pocket that would accommodate a small blaster, as well as one for a viroblade; likely Solo special modifications. The vest really was in bad shape; it was a wonder Han _wasn’t_ injured. The slashes at the rear meant the back yoke and panel of charger-holders needed replacing completely. The front hadn’t been fully spared either. 

Leia sighed. It would be tough to fix while preserving significant portions of the original, but she could do it. Sewing and stitching was an art form on Alderaan and, as such, of course she’d learned. At the time she had resented it, but these days Leia appreciated her ability to remake standard-issue Alliance clothing in the traditional white of Alderaniaan heirs and welcomed the mindless break from agonizing over strategy and the resulting casualty lists. _This_ fabric was a sturdy, Derik’hur black-ram wool blend that shouldn’t be too difficult to acquire, and the stitching was a unique Corellian pattern that she wasn’t familiar with but appeared within her skill-set. Repairing it wouldn’t be truly free from anything Rebellion related. How could any favor she might do be? They were on a Rebel base. The vest had been damaged by the conditions there, everything about their lives was constrained by the conditions there. But it was a gesture beyond payment for services. It would have to do.

Against her better judgment, Leia lifted the vest to her nose and inhaled. Motor grease, engine oil,  and, underneath, that faint trace of Corellian Old Spice blended with a neutral soap and that- that indefinable Han smell. Catching herself, Leia returned the vest abruptly to her lap. She had a bad feeling about this. 

**—**

It was close to 21:00 hours when Leia slipped onto the Falcon using the codes Han had given her, in case the worst happened on a mission and she returned to the ship without him or Chewbacca. Leia had waited until Han would be in the middle of a patrol, at a time when the main hangar was relatively empty; she had practically checked the schedule every hour to ensure that she had it accurate.  As on the day she had lifted it, the vest felt weighty in her front jacket pocket as if she were carrying hunted intelligence rather than an article of men’s clothing no one gave a Felucian fig about. 

She felt a pang of guilt sneaking into Han’s living space, despite him having once said- not entirely soberly- that she was welcome any time of the night. She was pretty sure this was not what he had in mind. But then she was also 99% sure he once hot-wired entrance to her bunk to fix a leaky faucet that she reluctantly admitted had been keeping her up. So perhaps they could call it even?

Leia closed the ship’s ramp behind her to ensure no one would come looking for Han if they saw it down, though she would be only a minute. She would leave the vest neatly folded on the Dejarik table. It was a public enough area that she told herself it wasn’t too invasive- it wasn’t his sleeping quarters- and it would be clear without being overt. They would pretend it didn’t happen beyond a vague reference, in that way that they had (“Sleeping better these days?” “Yes, I’ve found there’s a lot less noise lately.”) and that would be that.

At least Leia hoped Han would know it had been her. Who else would leave something like that, in the way that he left things for her? She was pretty sure he didn’t leave things for other people in that way…

She had just reached the main hold, vest in hand, her heart louder in her chest than seemed reasonable, when she heard the ramp descending and froze. For a wild moment, Leia thought about hiding. As if being caught _hiding_ on the _Falcon_ wouldn’t be infinitely worse. Reaching desperately for an excuse and finding none, still she turned to face the corridor and the ship’s captain, instinctively tucking the vest behind her while straightening her back and squaring her feet. She was painfully aware of the childishness of this gesture as she resolved to face the captain of the Millennium Falcon head-on.

Han was engrossed in some chip-filled grid-part and might have walked right into Leia on his way to the tech station had she not bravely cleared her throat. Lifting his head, eyes landing on her, Han slammed to a halt and started to say something (“Holy-”) but left it there, mouth open. He looked behind him and back at the princess, brow furrowing. Leia could practically hear him running mental calculations on what the Princess of Alderaan could be doing on his ship- whether he had invited her and forgotten (not likely), whether he should be offended at her breaking into his home or be pleased she had let herself in and was apparently waiting for him, trying to figure out if he was in trouble, if _she_ was in trouble-

Leia cursed herself and her whole dumb plan, cursed herself for not coordinating with Chewie, but what came out of her mouth was- 

“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on patrol.”

Han’s eyes darkened, and he snapped back, “It’s _my_ ship. What are _you_ doing here?” 

Leia sucked in a breath. She hadn’t come here to fight. She tried to relax out of her battle-ready pose but it was a lot harder with her hands behind her back. Realizing too that she was without a response, she made a show of primly closing her mouth and gave Han her best outraged glare despite being so obviously and utterly in the wrong.

“Well?” Han asked testily. “Can I help you with something?”

“No.”

Han stared at her for a moment, bewildered.

“Okay then.”

“I’m sorry. I should go.” Leia attempted to brush past him, aware of the how little space was between them- how was it they were so close when it wasn’t that narrow a hallway?- but was stopped by a hand to her arm.

“Hold on. What’s behind your back?” Han asked suspiciously. Leia had no doubt that it was a testament to the trust he had in her that he hadn’t yet gone ballistic.

There was no getting out of this. Turning wide, guilty eyes up at Han, Leia offered the folded black cloth in her hands. He stared at her a moment, then down at the object, then back up at her. She held it up further. _Take it_. Han shifted the tech-part under one arm, and Leia tried to ignore the way his fingertips brushed hers as she transferred the vest from her hands to his. She attributed the shiver that ran through her spine to the night air wafting through the corridor from the ramp. Han regarded the object for a moment then, apparently sensing that he still had no idea what was going on, set the tech piece down and unfolded the cloth.

“Hey, it’s my vest!” he appeared delighted for a moment, and Leia smiled in spite of her mortification, her heart lilting upwards. “This was ripped.”

“Yes, it was,” Leia mastered a more neutral, matter-of-fact expression. 

“Badly ripped.”

“Yes.”

Then his voice turned serious, which made it low and, goddess help her, somewhat husky.  “Now it’s not.”

“Excellent observation, captain Solo.”

A beat. “You fixed it?”

Leia felt her cheeks redden, and she told herself it was indignation. “You’re not the only one with the skills to provide for their basic needs.”

Han turned it over in his hands, “This looks really good. No, _really_ good. I’d say I coulda done this myself, but the-“ He ran his hand over a particularly difficult line of stitching that had improved the sturdiness of the garment while adhering to the original style, one that had seemed to take her _forever_. Now Leia could not ignore the buoyancy in her chest. She attempted to darken her expression so as not to appear giddy.

“ _You_ did this?” he asked again.

“As I said, Captain.” _Serious face, Organa._

“Why?” Han appeared genuinely floored. It made Leia’s chest feel tight and heavy, the warmth there no longer a glowing and comfortable but hot and burning. Leia had no response. Han stood there, mouth-open. The silence stretched thin and Leia dropped her gaze to the floor. 

“Hold on, your Princessness,” Han put his hand in front of her chest, as if to prevent her from leaving, though she hadn’t moved to do so. Leia released a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. “I just want to make sure I have this straight. You sneak onto my ship in the middle of the night-”

“2100 hours is hardly the-“

“-in the _middle of the night_ ,” he insisted, “to return this to me, having mended it in what looks like a time-consuming and difficult manner. That about right?” Leia folded her arms in response, shifting her weight slightly onto her hip, and giving him one of her more mildly piercing looks. That smirk spread across Han’s face and he drawled, “I _caught_ you, Princess.”

“Yes, you busted me,” Leia admitted. “But you should have been on patr-“ 

“Not what I meant. I caught you _bein’_ _nice_. To _me._ ” He pointed at his chest for effect. 

Oh, for goddess sake, him too with the nice thing? 

“I was _not_ being nice, I was just being decent!” 

“That _different_ than being nice?”

“You needn’t make a thing of it.”

“I think I do need to make a thing of it,” Han teased, stepping closer. “You _like_ me.”

“You’re a good friend.”

“You _like_ me,” he said again.

“I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression-” she put on her best lecturing tone, realizing a beat too late that she had leaned further in to meet his amused face.

His eyes gleamed knowingly, “And what impression would that be?”

“You know perfectly well-” Leia’s voice rose further.

“I’d like to hear you say it,” he practically whispered.

She swallowed. He was so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. Leia could smell the motor grease and engine oil he wore as a cologne, and that subtler clean smell underneath that, and she suppressed a small tremble as her eyes flicked to his lips. He took a step closer, and she threw up her eyes in an exaggerated roll, breaking the moment, her hands following her eyes into the air.

“Alright, your Worship, maybe next time then,” Han sighed, settling the vest comfortably onto one arm.  “You can’t blame a guy for tryin.’” He stepped back, releasing her.

“Honestly, Han, if you put half as much energy into imagining battle victories as you do into imagining things that aren’t there, I bet you could win this war for us.” The sting was out of her voice and she turned up a small smile, though it did not reach her eyes. 

“Just as much of a fantasy, sweetheart.” He sounded tired.

Leia thought Han moved to walk her out, and was surprised when she found herself striding down the corridor on her own. The mild night did nothing to stem her awareness that his warm presence was no longer beside her and she was surprised by the sharpness of her sense of _lack_.  

“Leia,” Han’s voice caught her, and she turned at the ramp. He lifted the vest. “Thank you.”

She nodded, and then she was gone. 

—

_[New vest?]_

“No. Old vest.”

When he had returned to theFalcon to find it missing, Han had figured someone had thrown it away and bitched to Chewie about it for a week.

Chewie warbled a question.

“Weirdest thing happened last night.” Han paused, torn between not wanting to share the Princess’s private actions and not wanting to keep last night completely to himself. But Chewie was his best friend and more, he could be trusted not to tell anybody- or say anything to Leia. “Caught Her Worship sneaking onto the ship to return this to me. Patched it up and everything.” 

Han thought back to the Princess on his ship, face flushed, large dark eyes turned up at him, returning an article of his clothing. So close to a fantasy he could taste it. Tempting delusion. 

_[Looks good]_ the Wookie admired.

“Yeah she did a good job,” Han said gruffly. “Nice o’ her.”

_[You think everything the Princess does is good.]_ Han merely returned a glare. Laughing mildly, Chewie asked, _[She snuck aboard? So, you gonna change the codes? Use the old codes only on missions?]_

“Not a chance, pal.”

**Author's Note:**

> _Thanks for reading! Comments are treasured. <3 GCFB _


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